You know imitation is the sincerest form of flattery . . . yah . . . I didn't really think so . . . although, since so many people are out there writing fanfics, I suppose they must like the series somewhat . . . and to that end I suppose I must say it, you know I sigh every time I type this. I do not own Harry Potter or any of its affiliates. This is just a little drabbley sort of thing . . . have fun.
Foolish
It's like your running and then you're the fastest in a race and you can see the finish line and you're so close you can taste it; you're going to win; and then every thing slows down again; and the world goes dizzy as you spin; and all you can catch are fragmented sounds and ideas.
And then you wake up to a messy room that's not yours and that's all you're aware of before the room that's not yours starts to spin and you stumble out of the bed that's not yours, and that's all you know before the room starts to spin again, and you stumble out of the bed, and find a toilet that's not yours, and spend the next hour praying to the porcelain god.
After all that was in your stomach is gone and all you can do is dry heave, you begin to notice little things; like how the towels are old; and how the tiles get lighter as they near the shower. Now that the dry heaving has stopped, you turn to the sink and consequently the mirror. There's a fuzzy image in it. You squint and it comes into focus; the person in the mirror is pale; with blood shot eyes; and blond hair that's flat in the front and sticks up in the back; in a shirt that's much too big with crusty stains on it. God, you feel like shit and you can't remember anything past the moment you downed that fifth fire whiskey.